there's more to life than this

Damn it all, how pathetic can I get? Bleemin' bloody hormones! Betwixt leaking, watery eyeholes and sensitized nipples I am surely on the brink of menses. I actually started crying on the freeway, listening to "Origin of Love" (Hedwig). You know, the part after all the other part where she tells the story (uh, that would be the end, catbus) where she directly addresses her lover, her other half. But when I get like this I will cry at commercials: "aw, jeez, did you see the kid and the puppy and the soft focus filter and the heart-warming product placement? waaaaaaaaahhhhhhh."

Ahhh, enough of the self-involved bullshit. Other than occasionally entertaining my beloved handful of readers with crass language and idiotic phoneti-speak, this diary is suffering from a severe lack of content. That's what the masses are railing for these days, CONTENT! Yesterday I was telling Eyes about the blandy blandness of this thing, this diary, and why do I bother? and she said that it was bland and boring because I leave so much out. Well, shite! I leave things out because peeps I know and see and work with (ok, so only 2 or 3, but still)read this thing and I need to keep some things private, don't I? Do I? Or maybe I just need to start making a bunch of twisted tales up, sprinkled with some truth and that would be more interesting. Like, "A hippy and a redneck got together and had sex and had a kid, a little boy. The boy took ballet lessons, had a typically difficult adolescence, grew up, had a sex change operation, went to college and ended up running a radio station. Now all that's left of the boy in the girl is a deep voice and a tendency toward hirsuteness."

That's still boring.

Sigh.

Fine, entertain yourself

here

while I attempt to think of something else to write about besides myself and my cat.